


penitence

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aftercare, Boarding School, Caning, Canon Era, Coming Untouched, Corporal Punishment, M/M, Masochism, No Aftercare, PWP without Porn, Reluctant sadism, You Decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 23:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17011074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: "I have noticed that some men attend confession," said Enjolras, turning back toward him, even-tempered, exacting. He kept his hand still upon the surface of the writing desk; Combeferre surveyed him, the slight curl in his fingers, which were white despite his appearance of calm — a solitary trace of tension.Enjolras, completing and correcting Combeferre.





	1. i. penitence

**Author's Note:**

> **In addition to what is detailed in the tags, this fic contains:** mentions of child abuse, mentions of schoolyard bullying, trauma-like reactions related to both of these things, crying, not following through on kink negotiation, dialogue in French, incidents which happened at more than one English and German school and but few French ones all combined into one particularly hellish Napoleonic lycée, etc.
> 
> **This fic fulfills:**
> 
>   * the square "caning" on my kink bingo card
>   * the square "ritualized pain/injury" on my hurt/comfort bingo card, albeit not as well, and also "washing/bathing"
>   * [this kink meme prompt](https://lesmiskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4234.html?thread=51850#cmt51850), although admittedly I'm not sure I captured the whole meaning of the word "fetish" very well
>   * multiple other kink meme prompts about Enjolras domming someone by accident and liking it
>   * the best Anonymous Tumblr prompt I have ever received in my life, being, " _Anythng you write is a blessing but can you show us combeferre and enjolras switching it up and uhh """correcting""" one another. Tjank_ "
>   * what my id wants? I didn't know my id wanted this. If you had asked me a week ago if my id wanted this I would have said no.
> 

> 
> Aftercare, among other things, is in the epilogue.

"I should not ask of you remission did I not think it necessary. "

"You are asking that I punish you, Combeferre, using a method of which I doubt the utility, for a transgression which warrants compassion."

They were in the small antechamber of Enjolras's apartment. Where previously they had been huddled together over the writing desk, they stood now upright but inches from one another, dressed in shirtsleeves, hands ink-spattered, the products of the night's work abandoned – ' _for a moment_ ,' Enjolras had said, ' _you are distressed, speak to me_.'

The moment had become minutes.

"Compassion," repeated Combeferre. "Compassion is not what I seek, Enjolras, in light of recent events, not from you. I need never beg you your compassion, for of late you have defaulted to it; what I desire is discipline. In another sense: _vi victa vis_."

Enjolras blanched. "Silence. You speak of consequence, not defence; Cicero the reverse; furthermore this is no tribunal and you have murdered no one. Do not exaggerate your wrongdoing before me; it does not endear me to your request."

"Such conviction! never have I expected less from you. Three years ago you would not have invoked endearment and compassion in this way; so it is we have both evolved. Very well — tell me, then, of whom else may I ask? Enjolras, refuse me outright and I should never broach the subject again. But you do not, and for my part I should request chastisement from no man but you."

"You have granted me undue authority. I shall absolve you of no crime, for no crime has been committed; a matter such as this ought not require remission to ease one's conscience, let alone a beating. I thought our resolution was clear. I begrudge you nothing."

"If you cannot absolve me, correct me."

He did not falter. Enjolras turned from him; Combeferre followed his gaze down to the desk, the scattered papers of the essay they had been reviewing for print since mid-afternoon, drafts marked over in Combeferre's own scrawled penmanship. Enjolras was a skilled orator and rhetorician, but he did not fancy himself a writer; Combeferre's specialty was the treatise and the essay, the particular components of grammar and usage which took ideas trapped in the mind and made them concrete, accessible, upon the page.

It occurred to Combeferre that in their friendship he himself had often taken the rectifying role: Enjolras required at times a shrewd eye or deft hand, a counterbalance to his austerity and singular focus. Combeferre could never fault Enjolras's logic, but he could delve into the underlying, find that which was black and white, contrastive, orthodox, and show the shades of grey. In this way they had become, he realized, more like one another over the course of their companionship.

Yes, he had corrected Enjolras, both his works and his person, but never in a manner such as that he was now insisting be applied to himself.

His request had altered the course of the evening.

"I have noticed that some men attend confession," said Enjolras, turning back toward him, even-tempered, exacting. He kept his hand still upon the surface of the writing desk; Combeferre surveyed him, the slight curl in his fingers, which were white despite his appearance of calm — a solitary trace of tension. "Joly, for instance. Courfeyrac."

Beyond his words, beyond his posture, there seemed a wall before Enjolras's cognizance which suddenly he could not penetrate.

And yet he felt no desire to attempt thus, and made no reply: it was rare that Combeferre found Enjolras to be unreadable, but this night was full of rarities, and the realization that he could not place his friend's thoughts did not disquiet him. He knew very well that he did not require confession, that this was not a matter to be resolved by a priest but by a peer. The granted authority which Enjolras had deemed undue was a natural right; between them, and between them only, its expression was egalitarian, a give-and-take, and a necessity under the circumstances.

"They find it useful. I cannot say that I understand, I have long abandoned the Church in favor of the Enlightenment, but I can now respect its provisions, just as I know you do yourself — if I am to act as your priest my duty is finished, I have heard you, I have forgiven you all transgression; not on behalf of God but on behalf of man."

The roles were new, but they two had come close to this, in times of stress prior. Yet never before had Combeferre asked for exactly such discipline from another man: in his own past it had been given regardless of his feelings on the matter, and not from an equal.

With his pointer finger he traced the pattern of the wood grain along the top of the desk beside them, back and forth, stopping shortly before their hands might touch, before returning in reverse motion: the movement calmed him. Very suddenly he recalled the memory of an oak desk beneath the backs of his hands, the claustrophobic, stifling nature of student benchrows, and the strike of a _férule_ against his inner forearms, the quiver of his own voice: _un, deux, trois, quatre_...

"That is to say, Combeferre, that penitence need not come from an action so corporal as to leave marks."

An inhale, an exhale. Enjolras was deliberating. Where his breath was smooth and rhythmic, Combeferre's was taut, sporadic; his chest felt tight.

"You are no longer a schoolboy. You have asked of me an act contrary to your philosophy and so too your pedagogy: have you not vowed to uplift the abased?"

This was true, and so he had; and still he had asked to be abased himself, owing to some deep seated need which he rarely let himself acknowledge, until the weight of his behavior became too much to bear alone.

He himself had taught in a schoolhouse once, the summer between his final term at the Polytechnique and his first at the medical school; the lessons were held in an old wing off of the village church. The director had in years prior been an instructor of the Society of Jesus, then become church warden following the Revolution. The curriculum was some decades old, at the time of its publishing intended for students far more elite than the children of wandering laborers. Notwithstanding it was all that was available, and the pupils would otherwise not learn anything at all: they were poor, female, transitory, or whatever else. And so he had adjusted the curriculum for the regulations and customs of the 19th century: less ministry, more reason; he had spared the rod and employed the compassion found lacking in his own secondary education.

The director had not requested his presence the following year.

"Combeferre, if I am to do this for you, you must answer me promptly when I speak."

Enjolras caught his still-moving hand and forcefully calmed it, exerting pressure along his knuckles; he ceased his path along the desk. Combeferre met his eyes, and whatever barrier there had been between them a moment ago was breached: comprehension dawned. Enjolras, he saw, would not refuse him.

They held eye contact, each searching for something in the other; Enjolras turned over Combeferre's hand and clasped his palm.

Some years ago, in a setting not unlike this one (a private apartment, candlelit, its occupants half-dressed), they had adopted a similar position (kneeling, then, but this close, their hands in this way) and sworn themselves to the Republic.

"Enjolras, I beseech you abase me, for it is just retribution for my actions, and as we each have vowed, and as I know you so desire, deliver me afterward."

This proclamation was met with a slow nod of confirmation; the tension in Combeferre's breast seemed to dissipate.

And thus began the final motions to complete the evening's transition: Combeferre untied his cravat and shucked himself of his waistcoat, which he hung with his coat upon the entry rack, and then began to roll up his sleeves; Enjolras moved the oil lamp from the desk to a bookshelf, briefly rearranged the since-neglected results of their earlier deliberation. He then saw that Combeferre had further undressed and made to unbutton his own waistcoat, but he did not remove it entirely.

When all was said and done, each man looked at one another and around the room. The bedchamber, Combeferre knew, and sensed that Enjolras did, also, would not do; but so it was also that Enjolras did not seem to have any preconceived notions of how this ought to go, whereas Combeferre himself had six years' worth.

There was a space between the doorway leading to the bedchamber and one of the bookshelves, its width hardly larger than that of Combeferre's shoulders. He surveyed it, moved to stand there, and said, "here will do."

"You wish to stand?"

"There is nowhere to sit. Besides, I assume you do not want me over your knee."

Enjolras turned pink in the cheeks.

"That is true."

A pause.

"You mentioned your schooling," he said. "I do not know what implement you have imagined I might use to - to carry this out, but,"

"I came here with my walking stick," interrupted Combeferre. As though he had done so with the intention that he might ask Enjolras this favor before the night was through — he had not, of course. But it was the closest thing. "It is quite a bit heavier than a metre stick, than a rattan rod, too, but light enough for a bout of _canne de combat_ ; you will not find it unfamiliar."

"Your walking stick? I should bruise you."

"So be it."

"No. That I shall not compromise on. If I am to use your walking stick, you must promise to tell me if the pain becomes unbearable."

Combeferre did not say that the _point_ was that the pain become unbearable, but he nodded. Enjolras looked almost satisfied.

"And I permit you to stop me at any moment – no, no, that is a condition, that you stop me before I go so far as to subject you to something you cannot take. And you may stop me for any other reason, either. Promise that you will."

"I promise."

"And I shall stop myself if I see that I have left a bruise, or broken skin."

"Very well," said Combeferre. "I might warn you that I have thick skin and a great amount of tolerance."

And he went to the door to retrieve the item, and then returned to hand it to Enjolras. It was an unadorned day stick, unweighted, made of polished maple.

"Not so heavy."

"Isn't it," said Enjolras, and he raised and lowered it with both hands, peering at it curiously, a hard line in his brow. "You are certain you can withstand this, if I am to strike you with it?"

"Enjolras, have I given you the impression that I am weak?"

Enjolras made no reply. The color had drained from his face again.

Combeferre continued, "Listen! you have acquiesced; I have promised; we trust one another; that negotiation is finished. Yes, I mentioned my schooling, earlier, I am no stranger to this. It was familiar to me in boyhood and remains so today. If I did not think I could withstand a caning I should not have asked for one."

"It was your _schooling_ , that gave you a tolerance for pain!?"

"Was that not made clear? When speaking of punishment – no, do not look that way, you used the word before I did – it is all I have known," said Combeferre. Enjolras bowed his head. "Among equals, when I have requested it, it is not so unjust, is it? As you might imagine I had not the luxury of requesting a thrashing from my tutors, nor the ability to stop it whenever I'd have liked, as you have granted."

"Indeed – but to develop 'a great amount of tolerance', by God, Combeferre, I wish you might hear yourself. Do not mistake my meaning, for I do not intend to say that you nor any other boy deserved this 'thrashing,' but, but, was it not considered but final recourse? Surely they had other methods. At my own school the rod was for repeated or grievous offenses alone, and retired before my departure."

"Not at mine. To be struck for one's misdeeds was the most common practice irrespective of context."

"With how much force?"

"As much or as little as the tutor thought best. At times some sort of mark was left, redness or a welt, but seldom bruising."

Enjolras stared at him.

Combeferre could not speak of this other than matter-of-factly. It had been, for better or for worse, the culture of his teenage years. Were he to hear tell of the same technique used upon his cousins or nephews he might have been enraged, but it was his own body thus affected, and the mere consideration of the acts did not much move him now that he was a man.

Perhaps to avoid eye contact, Enjolras looked again to the walking stick, rolled in his hands, surveying it. The color had not yet come back to his cheeks; coupled with his fair hair and blue eyes the overall appearance of his countenance then was inhuman.

"And how many strikes were dealt?"

He spoke in low tone, with a quality Combeferre might find almost reverent were it not unmistakably cold.

"Before my peers, only five to fifteen, in the interest of time management, I suppose."

"Only five to fifteen!" exclaimed Enjolras.

"Upon the palms or forearms, right at one's seat."

"Not with a walking stick as the instrument, surely. I have no desire to break bones."

"Never a walking stick, seldom a rod. Most often a _férule_ , each hall had a metre stick which seemed reserved for such use - but with enough effort, the chosen instrument is of no consequence. A boy's fingers were fractured, once, and that ended discipline to the knuckles."

"That is monstrous, Combeferre."

"That is only what took place in the lecture room."

But it was monstrous. He caught the note of distress in Enjolras's expression, and added, "one might be taken aside in the study hall for an earlier misdemeanor to receive further stroking, or a birching, sometimes; not to mention what occurred in the dormitory, or chastisement of another nature. Myself, I was one of the better behaved; you need not look at me so pityingly."

"Chastisement of another nature."

"Being made to kneel in the corner, taking meals in isolation, and the like."

"And the like," repeated Enjolras. "I can recall exactly three times when I received corporal punishment: all before the age of fourteen, and each was but one stroke to the hands. The rest of my misbehavior resulted in writing lines or a self-reproaching letter to my uncle. Combeferre, I cannot fathom what you mean by ' _and the like_.'"

Combeferre did know, having been graduated from the collège and distanced from his hometown for some years now, that his experience was abnormal for men of his age, but Enjolras's own seemed idyllic compared to most stories he'd heard. His high school had been rural and served mostly boarders, its primary pupils the region's sons of ranked men in the military and civil servants, with few from examinations and fewer still who were there by their parents' informed choice. It was the perfect environment for the use of such old-fashioned disciplinary methods, which would have been well-recalled by their fathers, to continue on unnoticed during the varying administrative changes of his childhood. They had been carried over, perhaps, from the Jesuit tradition – more than a century before their arrival the building had been constructed for such an institution, after all. Combeferre had received a national education, however, and so the only explanation which seemed probable was that Bonaparte's educational ministry had simply chosen the most savage instructors in all of France to teach there, and then everyone responsible had neglected to come visit to see how things were getting on.

And yet despite all of that, or more likely because of it, the curriculum exceeded that which it was meant to be. Most every student, Combeferre included, did exceedingly well on his exams, and went on, generally, to the Polytechnique, or to the military school, without issue.

Well.

Without _academic_ issue: Combeferre knew that had he not received such an education, he should not have been standing then in the apartment antechamber in only his shirt, braces, and trousers, with Enjolras gingerly holding his walking stick as though it might gain a life of its own in his hands, his gaze overwhelmingly steady at Combeferre's own.

"No matter what I mean," he said finally. "I agree that a walking stick to the forearms isn't agreeable, and so I am going to undress, and you may strike the backs of my legs."

He had not been keeping track, but it seemed to Combeferre that this would be the most times at which he had ever rendered Enjolras speechless in one night. 'Speechless' equated in his mind then to 'no protest', however, and so Combeferre turned from him to face the wall. Deftly he unfastened his braces, then the fall of his trousers, and tugged. They fell to a heap at his feet, and as he bent down to retrieve them it took all the self-control he had not to look and see if Enjolras was still watching him. He wrapped them in something resembling a fold, and set the bundle down in front of the door.

He then parted the placket of his shirt less carefully, and pulled it over his head to do the same.

The air in Enjolras's apartment was cool and dry; body exposed, he felt suddenly vulnerable. His own shadow upon the wall, cast by the ever burning oil lamp, acted nearly as a looking glass, and he took a moment to observe his own silhouette before speaking.

"You are ready? Choose a number — fifteen is too few for the legs, I say."

"What would satisfy you," said Enjolras flatly, and Combeferre did not miss the strain in his voice.

"One hundred?"

"You are mad."

"And you are fond of a decimal system – divide it into ten tens, if you like. I might count it that way for you."

"You intend to count aloud?"

"Yes, that was always the way."

"I cannot say that I know any better."

In lieu of reply Combeferre straightened his back and set his hands against the wall, elbows slightly bent, palms flat.

"Very well," continued Enjolras, "I shall strike you one hundred times, and you will count them one by one in the usual manner. Recall what you have promised me."

And without warning he struck Combeferre above the knees, causing him to jump a little, but there seemed very little force behind it, and he felt no pain.

" _Un_ ," he said.

The second was the precisely same, " _deux_ ," and the third, " _trois_ ," and they continued like that until " _onze_ ," after which Combeferre rolled his shoulders back and said lightly, "Enjolras, this is not a punishment so much as it is play-fighting," and the immediate, strong impact of the twelfth made him cry out.

" _Douze_ , by God."

It was closer to what he wanted, and even after the strike itself he felt a sharp soreness where it had been.

But this must have frightened Enjolras, because the thirteenth again was utterly ineffectual.

Combeferre steadied himself.

Gradually – beginning around twenty strikes – Enjolras lost his hesitancy and began to quicken his pace, using a little more power with each, and by fifty Combeferre was beginning to squirm, for although the effects of each strike did not always last, and the pain of each separated from the others was not so great, they came sharp and in neat succession, and he had no time between them to gain his bearings.

After " _soixante-cinq_ ," Enjolras paused; Combeferre heard the tip of the walking stick meet the floor and turned around enough to see Enjolras's expression, which seemed a mix of the horror from earlier and something new – not wonder. Curiosity, perhaps, shone in his eyes, and his lips were parted.

"Your skin is bright red," he said quietly. "Shall we cease?"

Combeferre turned back around. "I have promised to stop you."

And so Enjolras struck him again, this time at the side of his thigh and with new vigor, _whack_ : " _soixante-six_ ," said Combeferre, and instinctively bent his body away whence the stick had come.

Still they continued, and while Enjolras became a bit more creative he did not venture below Combeferre's knees or up to his hips. Yet unlike before, each blow now had more force than the one before it, as though Enjolras had realized that it would take more than what he had dealt to truly harm Combeferre, and that until that point was reached he might as well try harder.

It was not until around the eightieth that Combeferre considered the fact that he may actually desire to stop before they reached one hundred.

" _Quatre-vingt deux_ ," he gasped, for this time, for the first time, Enjolras had struck him in a place already hit, and the pain was searing. He closed his eyes, and then opened them, willing himself to remain alert.

 _Whack_.

" _Quatre-vingt trois_."

 _Whack, whack, whack_ , all at once. Combeferre's knees nearly buckled, but he reached to his right and wrapped his fingers tight around the doorframe to steady himself. " _Quatre-vingt quatre, quatre-vingt cinq, quatre vingt six._ "

If nothing else, his voice still sounded like his own in his ears, and he did not stammer.

He felt sweat bead at his brow and run along his temples, and heaved a great sigh; for a moment he thought Enjolras had paused once more, perturbed again.

But he had not. The next blow came, and with it the sudden awareness of all those that had preceded it. The pain was even in both legs, now, and his whole body felt uncomfortably warm. He clenched the muscles of his legs and backside, as in a conscious and continuous flinch.

Enjolras continued, and when Combeferre closed his eyes this time he did not force himself to open them again. He knew he need only pay attention to three tasks: remaining standing, receiving the cane, and counting aloud with accuracy.

 _Whack_.

" _Quatre-vingt quatorze_."

Combeferre's arms had begun to feel weak some strikes ago, and just as he bent his elbows to relieve himself of the feeling Enjolras struck him once more. He fell forward, then removed his hand at the door frame to prop himself up again, arching his back, and realized –

"... _Quatre-vingt quatorze_."

" _Quatre-vingt quinze_ , Combeferre. We can stop, now."

But Combeferre shook his head and set his forearms against the wall, that more surface might provide him more support.

There were not so many more left, and although he did feel pain, now, part of him knew already that one hundred would not satisfy him. It was no longer so much about his actions, those which he had detailed to Enjolras and those which remained private, but about the need, curling within him as a physical sensation, for this to continue until neither of them could go any further.

His legs ached, and too his back and arms, and his hair was beginning to stick to his ears and brow from sweat – but they were not at that point, he and Enjolras.

The next three came slow, and so when he counted aloud he spoke the words slow, too.

With the ninety-ninth Enjolras reverted back to those at the beginning, steady handed but light.

Again his knees buckled, and he pressed his head against the wall – after so many blows, even the lightest impact now could affect him.

" _Quatre-vingt dix-neuf_ ," he said, and his voice was muffled.

He heard again the click of the walking stick upright upon the floor. The impacts ceased.

"That will do. This has been more than adequate consequence for your perceived infraction."

"No," managed Combeferre, "no, Enjolras; did we not agree that I should –"

 _Whack_. This impact, too, was light, but it crossed a marking already made; Combeferre flinched. He became suddenly aware that his legs were shaking violently, and that they ached, too, a dull throb consisting of every blow already dealt.

And yet that need in him had not been satisfied.

" _Cent_ , then, and that is quite enough," Enjolras declared, "I refuse. Combeferre, you can hardly stand, surely you do not expect me to —"

And with purpose Combeferre fell to his knees, and placed his hands shoulder width apart upon the wall to brace himself. He kept his arms straight, elbows oriented outward, at only a slight incline. Stable: his legs no longer shook, supported by his shins, his torso and thighs stood at acute angle from the floor. For another long moment Enjolras said nothing, did nothing. His presence was there, overbearing, but Combeferre heard only his own panting breath and felt only his heartbeat, pulsing, somehow just as loud, and the drip of sweat along the back of his neck.

"It need not be one hundred," he breathed.

"I cannot," murmured Enjolras, as a plea.

"I beg you."

Another beat.

"Count backwards, then," and Enjolras's tone had changed from that of a gentle plea to something more severe, authoritative, not unlike that which he used to give orders in combat, but with a note to it which Combeferre did not recognize.

This new voice vibrated with such a psalm-like thrum that Combeferre had the sensation that the whole building might hear them, hear _him_ despite his speechlessness, and a decidedly different feeling than pain or anxiety twisted in his gut.

He deliberated with what little clarity of mind he had left: the number should not be so high as to frighten Enjolras as before, yet not so low as to surrender himself before the time came. Not one hundred, not ten.

" _Cinquante_ ," and while Enjolras did not protest the quantity, the strike was delayed. Perhaps his resolve had already failed him. Combeferre drew himself up to proper posture, tilted his hips backward –

 _Whack_ , now across the buttocks; with far more force than any of the previous hundred had employed. He cried out.

" _Qua… Quarante-neuf_."

One cane's width above the previous.

" _Quarante-huit_."

Between the first two.

Combeferre fell from his locked arm position to his elbows and bowed forward, pressing his forehead against the wall. This was more intense than he had expected, and yet despite the searing heat of the blows to his backside he found he was desperate for Enjolras to continue on with momentum, that he might finally be satisfied.

" _Quarante-sept_ ," he gasped. His voice had cracked, and yet the strike came before he'd finished speaking, and was shortly accompanied by three more: " _quarante-six, quarante-cinq, quarante-quatre_ , oh, oh –"

"You begged for this."

"For _you_ –"

 _Whack_.

" _Quarante-trois_."

Nothing further. Combeferre adjusted his stance against the wall, pulling back his head, spreading his knees; he opened his eyes a little and saw his own sweat marking the panelling.

Each second free of impact made him more aware of that throbbing sensation in his legs; he imagined sore, pink rows evenly spaced along his thighs and now buttocks, and squeezed his eyes shut again.

Impatient, he tried, " _Quarante-deux_."

His voice sounded wrong to his ears, garbled. It was becoming difficult to speak clearly.

"Be silent unless you are counting, and do not anticipate strokes."

Combeferre hardly registered the words themselves, but the air of aversion in Enjolras's tone affected him almost more than the pain of the next strike to his backside, and the uncomfortable pulling felt in his gut came again.

The next blow hit the join between his buttocks and thighs, dangerously close to impacting between his legs. His bare cock twitched, and he realized with shame the true nature of his reaction, and why had felt so compelled to continue receiving this chastisement —

 _Arousal_ was not a prominent emotion in his memories of punishment at school, but on the off occasions where it was present, it was never so consuming as this.

He willed it away.

" _Quarante-et-un_."

With the tenth strike he began to feel lightheaded, if not from pain than from the sudden rush of blood to his prick. Recognizing the response in his physiology seemed only to make it stronger, which made him more embarrassed, which in turn made him more aroused, in some repugnant cycle.

" _Quarante_ ," he breathed.

There then came enough strikes to reach thirty-three, one after the other in succession, crosshatched. Enjolras, Combeferre realized, was using combat technique.

This, too, further excited him.

After a long pause, in which Combeferre had fallen again to press his face to the wall, covering his head with his forearms, prick throbbing, he heard, "you are not excused from counting."

The pain was nigh unbearable, and yet, sickeningly, he was now fully hard; he could not recall a time when he had been so overcome with feeling, when pain had wrought carnal pleasure so intense as this. He thrust his hips forward and back, toward nothing but air, and felt no control over the motion.

He tried to speak, for nothing seemed more urgent than to continue the tally aloud as instructed, to feign that he was unaffected and that his desire — for more strikes, for Enjolras to speak to him roughly again, to be touched and brought to climax, for _Enjolras himself_ , oh! — was not controlling each and every quake and quiver of his body.

He attempted, " _trente-neuf, trente-hui_ —," and felt as though he had lint in his mouth.

This was his limit, reached.

In reality there was nothing there but his own tongue, and still he gagged on his words, collapsing onto his calves and allowing the wall to bear the rest of his weight, his cock erect against his belly. Some part of him, whatever was left of his conscience, did not allow him to create the friction which he so desperately sought by rutting against his own body, and so he did not embarrass himself by trying but nonetheless shook with tension as before.

Combeferre heard the clatter of the walking stick fallen to the floor, and then Enjolras's voice, barely audible, back to its normal timbre, "what have I done," perhaps directed only to himself.

He felt Enjolras's trousered knee against the bare sole of his foot: Enjolras had knelt behind him. He laid a hand on the small of his back and pressed lightly, and immediately Combeferre spent himself with an unmistakably sexual moan.

Thus relieved, he realized he had been weeping in frustration.

Enjolras did not move.

There they remained, for how long Combeferre did not know – he saw only the insides of his eyelids and felt nothing but that steady hand upon the small of his back. That feeling superseded all of the others, he focused on it, and the pain became a sensation in the back of his mind.

"Combeferre," came Enjolras's voice, tentative now, and he began to rub his hand up and down Combeferre's spine.

And there was the pain again. Combeferre could not move, and he simply remained in place, crumpled, and tried to gain control of his breathing, to stop the flow of his tears. He hiccuped.

"That is quite enough."

This time, Combeferre did not protest.

After a moment the soothing pressure of the hand at his back and knee at his foot disappeared. He opened his eyes and turned his head that he could see to the side of him, attempted to breathe deeply; his tears slowed.

The room was exactly as it had been before.

He heard Enjolras move behind him, saw his own walking stick placed as though fragile against the doorframe at his side, and shuddered at the sight of it. A moan escaped him, as before, guttural, involuntary.

"Hush, Combeferre," said Enjolras, gentle into his ear, "come — up you get," and he hoisted Combeferre up by the elbows, then held him by the waist while he gained his footing. Enjolras's grip was nothing if not steadying; Combeferre swayed for a moment in his arms, closed his eyes again, and was kept in place.

They stood there like that for some time, but Combeferre knew his state of mind and body required it. He no longer cried. The throbbing pain at his thighs and buttocks was all-consuming, his extremities felt as though pricked by needles. Any pressure beyond that of Enjolras's palms was more than he knew he could bear.

Yet Enjolras held him through it, and when Combeferre set his shoulders back and at last found he could move his toes and fingers without a jolt through his body, he did not loosen his hold so immediately as to thrust Combeferre back into that realm of strange sensation. Gradually he lifted his palms, and then two by two his fingers, touching symmetrically across Combeferre's unstruck back before allowing his arms to fall to his own sides.

Once released, Combeferre turned around to see a rosy flush across Enjolras's cheeks, his golden hair wild, sweat beading upon his brow and chest. In the midst of the caning he must have discarded his waistcoat — his shirt was visibly damp around the placket, where it was unfastened, and too around his chest, the fabric transparent, showing his nipples. At his shoulders it clung to his collarbones; the strap of one of his braces had fallen, and settled lopsided at the top of his arm. Even after their time standing at rest, his chest rose and fell prominently with each breath, as though with every inhale he received a burden, and with every exhale was relieved of it.

So he, too, had been thus affected.

In the interest of maintaining his friend's modesty, always so gravely preserved, Combeferre did not look down.

Enjolras, however, must have; he procured a kerchief from the pocket of his trousers and gave it to Combeferre wordlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! here are some notes:
> 
> 1) Kink meme prompter from the year 2010, I love you, but I am sorry, because I did lots of research and could not justify to myself Combeferre's attendance at a Jesuit institution. They were "closed" (reorganized) in the mid 18th century and then mostly abolished in the Revolution, to be replaced with the Convention's central schools, to be replaced with national high schools (which stole the buildings of the Jesuit and Central schools) and secondary schools for ages 11-18 organized either privately or by the commune. The latter two are what all of the named Amis, save Feuilly, would most likely have attended, unless they attended a de la Salle Christian school or were educated out of school (by tutors, generally, probably only the families of Jean Prouvaire or Enjolras would have been able to do this based off of facts given in canon alone). In this fic, Combeferre went to a national school from age 11ish, and Enjolras went to a private secondary school and then a national school. Honestly, there is so much nitty gritty about schools that I want to read and yet I wrote this in three days without bothering to really go through French educational journal articles with a fine tooth comb, so in a few months or years I will come back to this and scream at how much I got mixed up.
> 
> 2) I'm also sorry because corporal punishment in France was a different beast than in England, or as I found out, Germany, so while most everything Combeferre mentioned did at one point happen to a French teenage student at school in the late 18th or early 19th century, such students' instructors were either a) in a Christian school and not subject to government regulations, b) subject to government regulations and abusing loopholes/being sneaky, c) subject to government regulations and thus heavily fined or fired. Enjolras's experience, however, is indeed a bit idyllic, the most common reality was really between the two. In any case, I am confident in my assumption that such a school as Combeferre went to for the purposes of sexy fanfiction did not exist... in France. In England this frankly was par for the course in this time period, if my understanding is correct.
> 
> 3) The Polytechnique being of course the École Polytéchnique, the university for sciences and industry that ended up just being militaristic, and the military school being the Ecole spéciale impériale militaire, or ESIM, which was a military special school with a student battalion from the get go. Actually I originally wrote ESIM but that felt pretentious.
> 
> 4) Bad jokes? So many bad jokes. The figureheads of the French Revolution were so into the decimal system they tried to reorganize time into one, which didn't last very long.
> 
> 5) I honest to God don't know if a human could really withstand this kind of beating with a hardwood cane in this way and was too chicken to find out, so let's just say those first eighty are REALLY light, and that Combeferre does indeed have a very high tolerance. On the other hand, I feel like I've definitely heard of things more brutal than this? Again: I don't necessarily care to know how realistic this is. 
> 
> 6) You might be asking yourself: what did Combeferre do? I'm asking myself the same thing. This is PWP sans porn, though, so it is what it is.


	2. ii, epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally the WORST time for one's internet to go out is in the middle of editing a final chapter to post. whoops. sorry to those who clicked on this fic in its first hours live!

Combeferre took the kerchief with an expression resembling a grimace.

Enjolras still could not gain control of his own breathing, and his mouth felt far too dry to speak; beyond that, the pressure in his trousers could not be ignored, but nor could it be addressed, either, not in the carnal way which he knew was necessary.

And so they stood, at impasse, the lamp casting a flickering light upon and around them.

Water, he thought suddenly, and remaining silent made for his bedroom — narrowly avoiding stepping upon Combeferre’s clothes as he did so. In that chamber he fixed his braces and struck his cheeks with his palms, ran his fingers through his hair, and held on to a bedpost until he had adjusted, and his breathing was smooth. The arousal dissipated. He then retrieved the washbasin and pitcher, full still from mid-day, and carried them back to the antechamber. It was just as well he had cleared the desk before they had begun; he set them both there.

Combeferre was stood in place just as he had been left, but Enjolras noticed that he seemed to have used the cloth as expected.

“You should wash more thoroughly,” he said, voice no louder than a murmur. “Can you walk?”

And yet his own words seemed to ring loud in his ears. Across from him, Combeferre’s eyes widened, he opened his mouth to speak — and then closed it, and shook his head.

“…would you prefer to sit?”

The reply to this question was a more forceful shake of the head accompanied with a change in countenance to something resembling horror.

 _As it would_ , Enjolras realized.

“— I was not thinking. One moment.”

He went back to the bedchamber in search of a washcloth, and found with little effort also a jar of ointment which had, originally, been Combeferre’s own. When he returned, he set these items at Combeferre’s feet. At the desk he poured water into the basin, and he placed the basin on the floor beside the cloth. The actions felt ritual, sacrosanct. He knelt at Combeferre’s side.

“If you cannot speak, and wish that I do not continue, tap me, on the head or shoulder, as in a bout of savate — do you understand?”

From below he saw Combeferre nod.

“Show me.”

And he felt Combeferre’s fingers atop his head.

Enjolras dipped the cloth into the basin and wrung it, then stood. The water was neither warm nor cool; when he squeezed his fingers to his palm, it ran along his wrist in rivulets, down to his elbow. He took the cloth to the nape of Combeferre’s neck, pressed there, his touch light. Combeferre did not flinch or shudder, and so Enjolras wiped it downward in broad strokes. Some of his hair was still moist from sweat; Enjolras resisted the urge to card his fingers through it. He drew the cloth along Combeferre’s back and shoulders, up and down, left to right, until it seemed he had done enough there, and he dropped to kneeling once more to wet the cloth again.

This brought him to face Combeferre’s thighs, which had gone from merely pink-marked to red and welting. Part of him, the same part which had caused him to command, ‘ _count backwards’_ , thought, _I did this_ , and the rest of him, the root of him, the sum of all his faculties of logic and reason, _why did I do this_. It seemed an egregious abuse of his role as a friend and companion. Despite Combeferre’s earlier words of persuasion, he did not feel as though this were an exception to all that he had sworn; on the contrary, this act was moreso within those bounds with him than anyone, for Combeferre was not only his brother in arms and fellow citizen, a comrade, his complement in politics and philosophy both, but also his dearest friend on a level beyond that which he had ever before experienced. In truth, those feelings had been budding fo some time, but not before that day could he admit, to himself if not to another, the full extent of what he felt for Combeferre. It was not only the pure whiteness of mutual devotion to a cause, not only the love which he had come to feel for all men, which allowed him to pursue without end the liberation of his country, but something deeper.

Something which made him want to bow his head and lower his eyes.

To beat Combeferre was a flagrant disregard for his personhood.

What did it say about him, that he had so enjoyed it? That it was not until striking Combeferre with a walking stick that he had reached clarity of feeling for him? And, too, could he compartmentalize these feelings, separate the man who had given such an order from the man he was now, who took a cloth to bare skin to cleanse it?

“Enjolras,” came Combeferre’s voice, hoarse, strained, “are you quite all —"

“Hush,” said Enjolras, for the use of his name had brought him back to himself, and he wrung out the cloth, then rose again to his feet, this time to face Combeferre directly.

Combeferre blinked, but he did not say anything more. When Enjolras pressed the cloth to his forehead, his eyelids fluttered, but then their gazes met.

Enjolras gently stroked it along the sides of his face, then across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “No,” he said ultimately. “But I am in better shape than you are.”

“Always honest. Will you recover?”

He rubbed at Combeferre’s neck and ears, and across the upper part of his torso, before speaking.

“I don’t know.”

Enjolras broke their eye contact, which hadn’t wavered, and knelt again to refresh the cloth.

“This is likely to hurt,” and he held it taut in his hands, began to dab gently along the marks upon Combeferre’s backside.

Combeferre hissed, but Enjolras noted that his fist was clenched by his side, and so he continued. As he pressed the cloth to the join of his left thigh and buttock, however, Combeferre flinched violently; Enjolras pulled away just as suddenly. He surveyed the area.

It was with great effort that he maintained a clinical tone, one which, in fact, he had tried to base off of the voice he had so often heard Combeferre himself use in compromising situations.

In one spot it seemed the skin had been torn, showing the raw, shiny layer beneath.

“The skin is broken, I think, but only just. I see no sign of bleeding.”

He looked up to see Combeferre looking down, his jaw clenched. “I do not suppose you have a hand mirror.” He was beginning to sound more like himself, but there was still pain present in his voice; Enjolras felt a surge of sympathy.

“No.”

“Do you think it ought be bandaged?”

“No, it is quite small — but I found the salve you gave me in summer for saddle sores.”

A pause.

“This is not a task I expected you might have to complete,” whispered Combeferre. He gripped the edge of one of the bookshelves. “But that may do something. Thank you.”

Enjolras understood, and picked up the jar.  It opened easily; he dipped two fingers in and took up a small amount of the contents.

“I seem to recall,” he said, as he rubbed it between his fingers, “that you asked for deliverance. Let us consider this a facet of my meeting that request.”

* * *

Enjolras had applied it in a manner painstakingly thorough, to places of broken skin and too where it seemed welts were beginning to form, and Combeferre had, through clenched fist and jaw, taken it admirably. Once that was finished he had dampened the cloth again, handed it to Combeferre for his front, and then gone to his bedchamber to undress, for the fabric of his shirt and trousers still clung to him.

The printing date was far enough out that they had no reason to continue their work, and so Enjolras had donned a nightshirt, and, upon realizing that it was then ten o’clock in the evening, told Combeferre with some authority that he would be staying the night there.

This Combeferre had not protested.

Eventually they had gotten into bed and taken the positions of a partial embrace, front to back-and-side, Enjolras propped upon his elbow. The linens and coverlet were folded back at his hips, and Combeferre lay on top of them, that the welts forming need not be touched unnecessarily. This arrangement had taken some negotation.

For some time, they were silent.

Every so often Enjolras looked down at Combeferre’s body beside him and saw red, angry lines — evenly, closely spaced up from his knees, until they weren't, until they overlapped and crossed, and Enjolras remembered all too well the feeling that had overcome him as that had changed — spread across Combeferre's thighs, and felt a mix of revulsion and pride of creation, which served only to further disquiet him.

It had been a little more than an hour since Enjolras had dealt the last strike to Combeferre's bare back, watched him collapse to his hands and knees and shudder before him, since he had held Combeferre firm and upright by the hips to standing, his own wrists sore.

Since Combeferre had turned to face him, and they had seen in one another the true nature of the act for both of them.

The events of the evening were not something he particularly desired to ruminate upon, and yet he knew that they would follow him from there on out, whether he be with Combeferre or not.

More particularly — his own _brutality_ would haunt him, and the heady, desirous sensation which had accompanied it. He felt no shame for what had come after, and hoped dearly that Combeferre did not, either; such brazen displays of intimacy were rare between them, and he had not found it unpleasant.

He had felt, standing with him, that the support he then provided might have made up in some way for the hurt he had caused, no matter in what ways Combeferre had asked for it, no matter how he had ultimately _responded_ to it, and then Combeferre had turned around.

Yes, Combeferre had turned around, and been unlike Enjolras had ever before seen him: dark hair tangled against his cheeks and forehead, trails of tears upon his cheeks, entire body blushing.

It had struck him then that this man before him was the same man who had fought with him in the streets, tended his cuts and bruises, trimmed his hair, who that very day had stood with him shoulder to shoulder over the standing desk and covered the margins of his manuscript with erudite criticisms. The physicality of his reaction to this new knowledge had overwhelmed him.

And just as soon as it was there it had disappeared, been replaced with that need to _do what must be done_ , which was to provide, in one way or another, care; he had let the feeling go without satisfying it, as he always did whenever faced with something similar —

In bed beside him, Combeferre adjusted himself, and then winced a little. This jolted Enjolras from his thoughts upon his own habits and character, and he watched him with attached concern.

“I am fine,” said Combeferre, although he did not look to be, and Enjolras replied, “you need not pretend to be,” and soon enough they fell in that give and take of discussion which was so particularly suited to them, both verbal and physical, silent and not.

They avoided, mutually, discussion of the evening’s events, each knowing that there would come a time to go over them in detail, but this did not stop the conversation from turning eventually to their school days.

"…Each time I thought to myself, _it will never be so bad as this_ , and, _I shall never speak out of turn again_ , and of course I was always wrong, for the next time would come and be worse than the last in some way or another. I think that I was the most high strung I have ever been during the final examination week."

"There must have been a limit to what they would subject you to other than broken knuckles," replied Enjolras, recalling his words from earlier, and he could not suppress a shudder.

"If so, it was never reached. If nothing else at least they were consistent with it – if 'consistent' can mean not only 'applied in the same manner each time' but also 'applied to everyone found at the scene of some misbehavior regardless of involvement, without fail.'"

"Can it? Ask the _Académie_ ," replied Enjolras, and Combeferre swatted at him. This earned him Enjolras’s hand atop his own, clasping it, and holding it in place upon his abdomen. "In any case that is the same everywhere, I should guess: indeed it always enraged me that, in a case with a clear victim and perpetrator, everyone involved would be punished in the same fashion. I recall on more than one occasion writing a letter to my uncle before the schoolmaster, and then that night alone in my bed writing another, that I might share what had actually occurred."

He noted Combeferre's smile — this righteous attitude of his youth was not one he had necessarily outgrown, they both knew.

But Combeferre had his own story. Enjolras lightly squeezed his hand, permission to continue.

"One day in my third year," he said shortly, "the instructor of Greek – called Monsieur Loubaud, he was older than many of our grandparents – walked into the courtyard just as another boy had pushed me to the ground and set his foot upon my back, and for reasons I still cannot understand we were both caned for it. You will recall that I excelled in Greek; indeed, until that moment I took pride in never having crossed Loubaud – but that day my performance was of no consequence, and he was no ally. Not one of us had an ally in the faculty, in fact, or at all; even those boys who terrorized the rest of the class together were quick to blame one another and play victim when it came to it."

"That is a wretched way to live, Combeferre, particularly for a boy."

"Between the brutalism of my peers and the despotism of my tutors my boarding school years were miserable, yes — but for whom are they not?"

A fair point.

"No man I could mention."

"That is right."

"But at my own school we were not subjected to such extraordinary barbarism from the faculty. Adolescent boys do well enough at punishing one another without adult interference – as you experienced then and on many other occasions, I am sure."

"Yes, but I'd no knowledge anything was out of the ordinary. My own mother used to switch my back – indeed, that is how I learned to count to ten in English."

"Your mother ran the home, not the school. You did not tell your father, I take it."

"My father, the frigate captain, Legitimist-turned-Bonapartist and back again – no, Enjolras, of course I did not, I was terrified of him then. I presumed he would think it best for me, though I have since learned otherwise. I knew also that the treatment paled in comparison to that of my cousins. You have heard tell of what takes place across the Channel, surely? if nothing else, when struck by my fellow classmates it was not as sanctioned discipline, and if it was found out I could take solace in the knowledge that they would be punished for it. No, I did not complain. It was my desire to be a dutiful student, besides, and I took care to be obedient to the tutors. You know me, however, I cannot always 'take care' when faced with that I object. As a boy I had not the good sense to control my mouth."

"You imply you have gained it," said Enjolras, but he accompanied the jibe with an affectionate nuzzle of Combeferre's hair.

 "I should hope you would see a difference, had you known me at fifteen years of age. Well. Only once in Paris did I come to learn the methods of discipline employed were considered archaic, that some were even outside of the law," continued Combeferre. He shifted against Enjolras's chest, a look of consternation upon his face: he had yet to relax, indeed, had been on edge since the first moment when Enjolras had touched him.

Enjolras could not imagine the ache that Combeferre must have felt, and at such tender places of his body.

“I will say, I don’t recall precisely when or how I discovered the singularity of my experience, but I cannot describe to you how resentful I felt in that time. As a boy I had loathed it all — the humiliation more than the pain, even — and as a man now I see it for what it is: an inhumane exertion of power and control, a white-knuckled clinging to customs rooted in the Ancient Regime, in sectarian education. And yet I find now that I cannot accept clemency, without some form of… "

He interrupted himself with a yawn, and then did not continue for some seconds. A blush spread across his cheeks.

"Thus I have seen," said Enjolras. "You have explained yourself quite enough for one night, Combeferre, my friend.”

“Not so well as I desire to —  very well. I shall finish, I can see you are at least as exhausted as I am. I shall say only say thus, that those years have in one way or another formed the foundation for every aspect of my beliefs now as a man. I should be a different person had I attended a different school, or had a different upbringing, so it was I cannot escape the influence of my schoolmasters and thus aspire to be a better one. And yet: _on ne connaît point l’enfance_.”

Again he yawned.

“You are closer to knowing than any man I have met, I should think,” said Enjolras.

And he leaned over to the side table, jostling Combeferre slightly in the process, to blow out the candle.

“Rest.”

The room now dark, he brought his arms again around Combeferre, and Combeferre laid his head upon Enjolras’s chest, weightier than before — closer, perhaps, to true relaxation, and to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that last bit of French is from the preface of Rousseau's _Émile, ou de l'Éducation_ , meaning approximately "we do not know childhood", in context referring to adults' affecting children by basing their education around what they want them to be as adults. Combeferre surely would have read it and have more complex thoughts on it than can be included in smutfic, but it makes a nice bookend.


End file.
